He huffed and his mother rolled her eyes. “So you left it up to Camillo to defend our family’s honor, then? I suppose I’m glad Camillo is not a coward and has the courage to stand up for us.”
“Why did you not help Camillo?” his mother asked.
Pier Giorgio hung his head and mumbled inaudibly.
“What did you say?” Alfredo asked of his son.
“I said it wouldn’t have been fair.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was only the three of us in the snowy alley. If I had joined in, it would have been two against one.”
His mother laughed, but not in good humor. “Only you would care about that, Giorgio. Was he not the one who attacked you two? You should have let him have it.”
“Tomorrow it will be my turn,” he said, but his father had left the room shaking his head and his mother didn’t seem to hear him as she began to prepare dinner.
That night Pier Giorgio slept little, tossing in his sheets as if bugs lay beside him. He rose early the next day before the rest of the family and left the house, walking several blocks to the Cathedral in the frozen morning so he could attend Mass and received the Eucharist.
After Mass, he scurried out of the church and ran all the way to school as a light snow began to fall. The hallways were packed but he navigated his way quickly through the bodies like a fish swimming through the sea and arrived at where he knew Mario Attilio Levi would be standing waiting to enter his first class of the day. His back was to Pier Giorgio but the latter could hear him relaying the story of the fight to a group of boys, embellishing his successful triumph over Camillo.
“Mario,” he said tapping the boy on the shoulder. Mario turned around. “Today it is my turn.”
Pier Giorgio drew back his fist and threw it at Mario’s nose. A roar erupted from the students around them as Mario fell to the ground. Pier Giorgio turned and walked directly toward the Principal’s office with a smile stuck square on his face.
8
Sympathy for Soldiers
Pier Giorgio was devastated when on May 24, 1915 Italy declared war on Austria. Over the next months dozens of young men were sent off to the front lines, many of them returning in body bags just weeks later. One of the Frassati family servants, Natalina, lost her brother and cried in Pier Giorgio’s arms upon finding out.
“I’d give my own life to end this dreadful war,” he told her, clutching her sobbing body. “But do not weep, for your brother is with Christ and his most Holy Mother.”
He withdrew into periods of great silence and despair when he thought about the war—its soldiers, widows, and even the fallen of the “enemy.” Despite how hard it was, he read about the battles as much as possible, feeling that he could only know how and what to pray for if he was properly informed.
Pier Giorgio shuddered at reading about the newest weapon being used in warfare, that of poisonous gas. Thousands of soldiers were killed when gaseous clouds descended down from the sky, drowning their lungs in fire. If any survived, their skin was scarred for life.
Although the battles never made their way to the Frassati doorstep, a cloud of discomfort, tension and sadness hung over all of Turin. Friends were lost in political arguments due to Alfredo’s public position of neutrality, so much so that Pier Giorgio’s boyish tiff with Mario Attilio Levi was all but forgotten.
Pier Giorgio made it his mission to do anything he could for the wounded returning from battle. He took up every lira he could find and hand-delivered it to the soldiers lying in crowded hospital beds, then sat down and prayed with them. He went and spoke at their clubs, offering encouraging words and ideas for how to transition back into everyday life. All were amazed by the wisdom which extended beyond his teenage years.
In the midst of his work with the returning soldiers, he met a young man named Gianni Brunelli. Gianni was a member of the Alpine Brigade, which was an integral division of the Italian Army. As soon as Pier Giorgio heard of Gianni’s tales in the mountains the two became close friends. They exchanged stories about their adventures in the snowy mountains and compared trails and locations they had visited.
“One day soon we must climb together,” Pier Giorgio offered as the two of them sat at a café.
“Absolutely,” Gianni replied. “I’d welcome an excursion into the mountains for fun. Most of my recent trips were for missions.”
Pier Giorgio nodded sympathetically. “I feel a deep sadness for what you and your brothers have seen in battle. I suppose I’d have been there with you had I been a few years older. I’m sorry I couldn’t fight alongside you, despite my opposition to this war.”
“You do your part, Pier Giorgio. The men of my company appreciate all you’ve done for us.”
“I’d love to meet more of them. Did you invite them to Mass as I suggested?”
Gianni shook his head. “They’ll never come with me. They’re bitter towards a God who allows what they’ve seen in battle. None of them have been to Mass since returning home.”
“But have you at least asked them and suggested they come?”
“No, but I’m confident of their refusal.”
“We can never assume someone wants to avoid Christ. Let them tell us with their own mouths. We may fail, but then we can look God in the eye and tell Him we tried. Tell them, only if they feed on the Bread of Angels will they be able to combat the inner demons that have tormented them since their return from battle. Besides, it is man who performs the evil deeds of war, not God. Will you at least ask them if they will join us this Sunday? What will it hurt to ask? Please, Gianni, you must ask. They don’t realize how important the Mass can be for their renewal of spirit.”
Gianni considered his words. “Okay. You’ve done much for me, so I will do this for you. But don’t expect anyone to accompany me.”
Pier Giorgio smiled. “Even if it’s only you, I’ll be thrilled to receive the Eucharist alongside you.”
Two days passed and Sunday arrived. Pier Giorgio awoke on the floor, a rosary in his hand. He had done it again, praying until sleep overtook him. If his mother had seen him she would have been upset. “I don’t even know why we got you a bed,” she once said. He bathed himself and dressed in his nicest clothes. Today, he would be the only one from his family attending Mass, but as he rode his bike to the Cathedral in Turin he thought only of Gianni and his fellow soldiers.
Although to Pier Giorgio most of them were faceless men, he had pictured them with each passing bead of his rosary the previous night. Each man, each stranger, so wounded by the horrors of war, was represented by a bead. They became the beneficiary of one Hail Mary as they passed between Pier Giorgio’s fingers and moved within him to reside in his soul, the sanctuary that inhabited all those he prayed for. To his new friend Gianni, he devoted a whole decade.
He waited out front for Gianni just as he had done the previous two Sundays, nodding and smiling at those walking past the massive doors and into the narthex of the Cathedral. He glanced at his watch—four minutes until Mass began. He poked his head into the Church to see if he could see his friend. Perhaps Gianni had forgotten that they would meet out front. But he did not see him.
Pier Giorgio scurried back outside to check one last time. He turned and looked down the street. There in the distance he saw a soldier in uniform walking briskly down the street, with nearly two dozen of his fellow soldiers walking behind him, also in uniform. Many of them limped and others had their arms in slings. One was being led by the hand of a friend, his eyes masked in bandages, and another’s skin had turned so red from scars it looked as though his entire face had been torn off, no doubt from the poisonous gas.
“Are we late?” Gianni asked as he approached.
“No, my friend, you’re right on time, and all are welcome. So many you have brought with you!”
“I don’t know what it was, Georgie. Every man I asked said yes. It was as if they knew what I was coming to ask them before I even spoke. Strange, no?”
; Pier Giorgio smiled. “No, Gianni, not strange at all.”
He led them into the Cathedral and filled up the last three rows with the souls of wounded soldiers.
9
Remembering the Forgotten
Pier Giorgio laughed as Camillo ran toward the bushes and threw up his dinner. The sound of his friend getting sick would not normally bring him such delight, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Ah, Camillo, you’re not such a big shot now, are you? What were you saying about looking so grown up smoking that cigar?”
Camillo collected himself and wiped at his mouth. “How can you smoke these so casually?” he asked. “One puff has churned up my stomach.”
“What do you expect?” Pier Giorgio said with a chuckle. “My mother smokes cigars. She smoked them as she breast fed me.”
Camillo put out his cigar on the ground and hurled it across the patio at Pier Giorgio. The latter dodged it and hurled a small pebble back at Camillo. Pier Giorgio enjoyed such casual moments with friends, moments that he knew would begin to dwindle with adulthood and all its responsibilities quickly approaching.
“I hope I haven’t ruined our Sunday evening with my vomiting,” Camillo said, returning to his seat alongside Pier Giorgio on the Frassati back patio. He grabbed a glass of water resting on the table and swished a small sip in his mouth to wash out the stale taste before spitting it back out.
“Nonsense. This has been a blessed day. I awoke and visited Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, I enjoyed a bike ride below glorious sunshine, I ate my mother’s wonderful cooking for dinner, and now I’m able to watch you throw up that very dinner as I enjoy this Tuscan cigar. What else could a boy ask for?”
“There’s always more to ask for. Perhaps we should walk down to a café and see what girls are there,” Camillo suggested.
“Oh, Camillo, how do you always have the same thing on your mind?”
“I could ask you the same thing, always thinking of your Jesus.”
“Yes, but my Jesus helps to keep me out of Purgatory, while your girls will send you straight there if you are not careful.”
Camillo laughed and playfully poked at his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, Georgie, let’s see what trouble we can get into down the road.”
Pier Giorgio took a long drag on his cigar, blowing out the smoke slow and steady as Camillo waited for an answer with baited breath.
“I’m sorry, Camillo, I cannot journey into town.”
“What? Why not?”
“I must attend early Mass tomorrow before school. I should get to bed soon.”
“Oh, friend, what need do you have for Mass tomorrow? It’s not Sunday. I need your good looks to help attract the girls down at the café. You know how they love those dark eyes and long lashes of Pier Giorgio Frassati, the one and only Senator’s son!”
Pier Giorgio smiled. “You need no one’s help with the girls, and certainly not mine. But I’m sorry, it’s a very important day and I cannot miss Mass.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Camillo asked, receding temporarily into his mind to try to place the date.
“I would rather not say,” Pier Giorgio responded. “It’s just a private matter of prayer that’s very important. But perhaps you should just journey home instead of to the café anyway; tomorrow is a school day.”
“Yes, I’m aware. I did not realize I was smoking cigars with my mother here on this fine night.”
“Are you comparing me to an old woman when you were the one getting sick from a little cigar smoke?”
“Ah! I cannot wait to tell Mama that Pier Giorgio called her an ‘old woman.’ You will no longer be her favorite!”
The two boys laughed and rose from the patio table. Pier Giorgio escorted Camillo out to the street and waved goodbye before returning to the back patio to enjoy the last of his cigar. Moonlight fell from the sky and illuminated a bird’s nest nestled snuggly in a branch above him.
“Oh, little birdies,” he said aloud, “what am I to do with my life? I’m nearly finished with high school and I must determine my path. I’ve begun to wonder if God is calling me to the clergy. I know I’d be happy as a priest, but Mama and Papa would not wish this of my future. They would delight in my taking over La Stampa and following in Papa’s footsteps; they have all but told me this from their very mouths. What do you think, birdies? Shall I honor their wishes, or follow my heart?”
No response came from the nest above him.
“Birdies? Are you there? Lately, I have felt a strong attraction to the poor of my city. I feel a call to help them in any way I can, and I suppose I can help them just as much as a layman as I could as a priest, perhaps more. Birdies, what do you think? Are you there? Won’t you sing to me in the evenings as you sing to me in the mornings? Shall I sing to you instead?”
He closed his eyes and broke into song, his voice breaking and missing every note and pitch of the love ballad he delivered to the sleeping birds above him. A moment later, a window overlooking the patio opened and his mother’s head poked out.
“Georgie! Stop with your horrible singing; you will wake the neighbors; cars are probably crashing in the streets!”
“Oh, Mama,” he called up to her, “you’re breaking your son’s heart! Won’t you let me sing to you?”
“No, go to bed!”
She slammed the window just before his laughter reached her ears. He put out his cigar and rose from the table.
“Well, goodnight birdies.”
The next morning he arose early and used the service staircase reserved for the servants, so as to not wake his family, and left early for Mass. The sun was just peeking over the edge of Turin, its bright rays funneling down the city streets between the homes and buildings.
He attended Mass and received the Blessed Sacrament, then stayed after and prayed before a statue of the Virgin surrounded by the glow of votive candles. At one point his body began to tremble and tears gathered in his eyes. A group of older women praying in the pews behind him wondered if he was alright, but they withheld from checking on him. There seemed to be a presence around him that kept others from approaching.
After Mass, he walked several blocks over to school. His friends hollered and greeted him with warm smiles as he entered the school courtyard, but Camillo did not. He recalled what Pier Giorgio had told him about needing to pray this morning and sensed that his friend needed to be alone, needed to do something before he went on with his day. Pier Giorgio ignored all the other students and walked over toward a row of trashcans where the school custodian stood emptying them.
“Mr. Ernesto?”
The man turned and smiled, wiping his hands on his sleeves before extending one to greet Pier Giorgio. “Good morning, Georgie!”
Pier Giorgio moved past Ernesto’s hand and hugged him.
“Pier Giorgio, what is this?”
When Pier Giorgio pulled back, Ernesto saw the red in his eyes.
“What’s the matter, dear boy? Are you alright?”
Other students watched from a few yards away, wondering why Pier Giorgio would bother to hug a man no one even talked to.
“Mr. Ernesto, I know this is the anniversary of your son’s death. I remembered him at the altar today when I received the Eucharist, and I prayed to the Most Holy Virgin to watch over you during this time of sadness.”
“How …” he faltered. “How is it that you remember this?”
“We spoke last year on this day, when I noticed how upset you were. You told me of the death of your young son. My heart breaks for your sorrow, Ernesto, but I know your sufferings will bring you glory in heaven.”
“Georgie, I … I don’t know what to say. It seems those in our own family have already forgotten my son, and yet you have begun your day with thoughts of him.”
Ernesto began to cry and Pier Giorgio held him again. He held him for several minutes, until the morning bell rung.
10
Bells for Peace
Pier Giorgio awoke at dawn to
the peculiar clink of his bedside table’s metal handle banging against the wood of the drawer. It rose and fell in rapid succession three times by the pulling of a rope, paused, then three clinks again.
He rubbed his eyes and rose from bed, sliding over toward the window as he followed the rope which dangled out of his room and fell down the side of the house. He poked his head outside and waved down to Signora Gola. She smiled and waved back.
He dressed and quietly made his way outside to meet her. An orange blanket and a lazy mist hung over the Pollone countryside. On the ground, the early-morning autumn dew had turned crisp below his feet as he circled the house to where the family garden grew.
“Good morning!” he exclaimed upon reaching her.
“And good morning to you,” she replied. “You’re enthusiastic even at this early hour. Most boys your age want only to sleep on their Saturdays.”
“Working in the garden with you is far better than sleeping.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but you’re kind to say so. Are you sure about the way in which I wake you each morning, though?”
“Of course. It’s better that you pull the rope from out here so as to not wake anyone else by coming in the house. You don’t want to see Mama this early in the morning. She can be very grumpy if her sleep is prematurely interrupted.”
She chuckled. “I believe we’re all that way. Thank you again for your help, Georgie. I will be sure to tell my husband if he makes it back that you’ve helped me keep up his duties while he’s away.”
“He will make it home, Signora, I know he will. My father thinks the war will be over soon, maybe by the end of this month.”
“I hope so. He’ll be happy to see the garden looking so nice,” she said looking out over the greenery framed by a stone wall. “I could not have done all this without your help this summer.”
“Say nothing more. Your husband has been a loyal worker for my family for years, and is serving our country bravely. It’s the least I can do. But please, let us set out to work. These potatoes are not going to dig themselves up.”
To the Heights: A Novel Based on the Life of Pier Giorgio Frassati Page 4